


Down, Boy

by KillNatalie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Horror, Let's Write Sherlock, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:18:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KillNatalie/pseuds/KillNatalie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the way back from a particularly terrifying case, John begins to feel that something isn't quite right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down, Boy

**Author's Note:**

> For the Let's Write Sherlock challenge. Written in my favourite style (that nobody likes), inspired by urban legends and a creepypasta-esque format.

How the man had howled at them and bared his teeth, his spine bent and his body grey and twisted. And when the terrifying thing lunged, John hardly avoided a crunch to the neck, though the frothing mouth was happy to bite elsewhere. Sherlock had pulled the man, the Thing, away and before John had even a chance to kick his feet against the floor he was deafened by a gunshot. Sherlock’s face was sprayed with red, a mask of blood over lily white. The wound in the man’s naked chest bubbled and gurgled, and he died only a moment later.

Sherlock was on the phone now and John stared at the nothingness on the back of the cab’s seat. The fabric was as cloudy grey as that man’s skin, the stormy sky just as sallow. Sherlock’s phone as black as the Thing’s eyes. As black as black.

“Hell—he’s got me on hold again,” Sherlock cursed, bowed lips pursed. There was blood on his hairline. John could almost smell it. The detective’s eyes darted up. “What are you looking so bothered about?” He asked this as if it pestered him horribly.

“He was so odd. Did you see his eyes? No colour. Just…black. Then he repeated. “Just black.”

Sherlock answered sharply, phone caught between his ear and his shoulder as he adjusted the black leather glove on his hand, “Psychotropic drugs, probably. Dilate the pupils, cause violent hallucinations. The man was claiming to be a werewolf, his eyes were hardly the queerest thing about him—oh, thank _god_ , finally.” Whoever was on the other end of the phone must have answered because Sherlock went back to chatting. His voice was like the roll of thunder in the backdrop of John’s mind. 

How those hands were bent, as stiff as tree branches, how the roar in his throat had flung itself off every cinderblock wall as if screeching like a bat from the deepest chasm of hell, and how dark those fingers had been, dipped in coal. The tatters of his clothes hanging from his hips like torn flesh, the ridges of his spine so prominent beneath the skin of his back that it looked as if the bone might tear straight through, white as alabaster. John could smell that dark red blood on Sherlock’s skin, couldn’t he smell it?

The detective’s voice broke through, “Bloody fucking hell, what do you mean?” John watched the snarl cross his features, nose crinkled at the bridge, small teeth bared, and for some reason it unsettled him. “No! I don’t care, get someone else to do the autopsy then!” The phone snapped shut and to John the sound was as loud as a tree branch cracked by lightning. 

“What is it?” John rubbed his fingers into his eye socket.

“Impossible! Incompetent!” he exclaimed. “How hard is it to do a simple examination? I should have stayed behind and done it myself, Christ.”

John replied, “Well, out with it, then.”

It took a moment for Sherlock to regain himself. He huffed through his nose, expression petulant. “They claim there’s no wound. A bloody hole in his chest, how do you miss that?”

John blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock was texting away on his phone. Tap, tap, tap, in rapid succession. “I shot that bastard in the chest and the imbeciles in the ambulance claim there’s no wound there. Nothing! Not a scratch anywhere!” Then he scoffed, “Well, except _one._ ”

A beat passed between them. Rain began to fall outside. It tapped on the window of the cab like a child’s fingers. “Where?” John asked. 

“A bite mark,” Sherlock answered, not looking up from his phone. “On his wrist.”

The beating of his heart filled John’s ears. His eyes were unblinking. 

Sherlock finally looked up at him. “Well? What now?”

And John held up his bloodied sleeve where the man had sunk his teeth into his skin. “You mean like this?”


End file.
